<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Keep My Heart Slow by ZehWulf</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25503685">Keep My Heart Slow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZehWulf/pseuds/ZehWulf'>ZehWulf</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5+1 Things, Affection, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Getting Lost in a Good Book, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, hair petting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:47:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,410</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25503685</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZehWulf/pseuds/ZehWulf</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The past three times he’d had the opportunity to put himself in close physical proximity to the angel while he was thoroughly absorbed by a book, Aziraphale had displayed… affection.</em>
</p><p>OR</p><p>A five-times fic about revealing more than you might otherwise when you're caught up in a good book.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>469</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Holly Jolly July: a Good Omens Gift Exchange</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Keep My Heart Slow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsleofSolitude/gifts">IsleofSolitude</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A gift for darling <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsleofSolitude/pseuds/IsleofSolitude">Faye</a> as part of the Holly Jolly July event on the Good Omens Events Discord server.</p><p>All love to my beta, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlysmallwings">onlysmallwings</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h4>First Time</h4><p>
  <b>[London, 1805]</b>
</p><p>Crowley felt a little ridiculous about it, when he cared to think about it directly at all, but he'd developed a habit of marking the frequency and variety of endearments Aziraphale called him.</p><p>If pressed, he might have said it was because he relished making fun of the more patently ridiculous ones.</p><p>The reality was nothing a self-respecting demon should consider, so he <em>didn't</em>.</p><p>Anyway, this just meant his ears were keenly attuned to register an odd sobriquet.</p><p>He was just leaving, having only popped in to invite the angel out to lunch later in the week to compare work notes. The grounding influence of both Aziraphale's permanent placement in London and the bookshop had been doing wonders for his willingness to meet up more frequently. Crowley would have teased him about it—the comfort on the slippery precipice of what head office might have characterized as complacency—but he wasn't a <em>complete</em> idiot.</p><p>Except, he was at least a <em>little</em> bit of an idiot, because when Aziraphale's response to his farewell was an absent-minded, "Yes, mind how you go, dear heart," he didn't immediately hoard the startled pang of delight for closer examination when there was none but the plants around to judge him.</p><p>Instead, he guffawed.</p><p>Aziraphale, who had been at least eighty percent absorbed in a new edition of "Pilgrim's Progress" he'd just acquired when he'd shot the new endearment straight through Crowley's shriveled heart, flinched and looked up.</p><p>"What?" he asked.</p><p>"What?" Crowley echoed, with considerable more wheeze in his tone.</p><p>"I said good-bye. And you laughed," Aziraphale said, sounding justifiably put out. "What's so funny about wanting you to, to stay safe?" He blushed as he said it, perhaps hearing how, when said out loud, it was objectively absurd for an angel to wish a demon, and specifically his rival agent, to stay safe.</p><p>Crowley cast a hunted look over his shoulder at the foot traffic on the street and stepped back into the shop fully. He leaned back against the shop door to close it, and he made a production of tucking his hat under one arm and casually slipping his hands in his trouser pockets.</p><p>"It's just," he said, forcing his tone to be coolly amused, "'dear heart'? That's a new one. A bit soppy, even for you, 'my dear boy,'" he said, adopting Aziraphale's plummy cadence.</p><p>Aziraphale, unexpectedly, turned nearly as white as his hair. "Oh, I… is that what I…?" He held up the book in his hand weakly. "It's… one of the characters says it. I suppose I wasn't minding myself..." He trailed off, gaze sliding off and skittering over about half of the shop's contents before settling on his lap, where he held the book in a grip that made Crowley wince for the integrity of the binding.</p><p>Crowley absorbed the excuse, the clear mortification, the imminent danger to Aziraphale's new book, which the angel would surely feel terrible about later, and took a fortifying breath.</p><p>"Just don't let anyone hear you calling me that," he said lightly. "They might mistake you for liking me."</p><p>There was too much white showing in Aziraphale's eyes as he gave a high-pitched titter. "Quite right, quite right. Well, you know where the door is, foul fiend. You can see yourself out, I'm sure."</p><p>Considering he was leaning right up against it, Crowley thought it was very generous of him that he didn't do more than make an agreeing hum and let himself out.</p><p>The incident lingered in his mind for days.</p><p>Something about the way Aziraphale had looked like maybe he'd been just as cut to the quick saying the words as Crowley had been hearing them.</p><p><br/>
</p>
<h4>Second Time</h4><p>
  <b>[London, 1860]</b>
</p><p>"Aziraphale," he called for probably the fourth time.</p><p>Beyond a distracted "hmm," the angel didn't look up from where his attention was riveted to the copy of "Persuasion" he was reading for, by Crowley's estimate, probably the twentieth time in the past thirty years. It almost made him consider picking up his own copy, if only to skim to see what the angel found so compelling.</p><p>They were going to be late for the table Crowley had arranged at the new establishment Aziraphale had been raving about. And so far, calling the angel's name and looming weren't getting results.</p><p>Frustrated, Crowley waved a hand between Aziraphale's face and the book's pages.</p><p>"Oi, angel, pay attention. Dinner? Remember?"</p><p>Finally, Aziraphale's brow furrowed in annoyance. But, rather than look up, he simply moved the book to one hand. With the other, he snatched Crowley's fingers and held them firm.</p><p>"Just a moment, dear," he said vaguely, eyes racing over the words on the page.</p><p>He gentled his hold so it was something closer to a gentleman greeting a lady of his acquaintance, but he didn't let go.</p><p>Crowley stared.</p><p>The contrast between Aziraphale's larger but shockingly soft hand and his more weather-roughened spindly digits was arresting in a way he didn't want to examine too closely. And the warmth. He hadn't noticed that his hands felt cold before, but they were positively chilly compared to the heat of Aziraphale's skin.</p><p>He opened and closed his mouth a few times, groping for some sort of snide remark or gentle tease, and came up short, flummoxed by the gentle pressure of the angel's fingers snaring his.</p><p>When was the last time they had touched—anywhere, much less skin-to-skin? He couldn't recall, but he would wager anything demanded of him that it hadn't been a circumstance like this, in a moment of perfect stillness and quiet, the rest of the world muffled beyond the protective walls and wards of the book shop, with only dust motes lazily drifting through a few slanted beams of late afternoon sunlight for a witness.</p><p>Aziraphale turned the page one-handed, and the shush of the paper was shockingly loud. So was the little hitch of a sigh the angel gave when he read something on the new page.</p><p>Crowley carefully modulated his breathing, convinced it must be harsh and obvious but afraid to disturb whatever the blessed someone was happening here.</p><p>And then.</p><p>Aziraphale gave another little sigh and tugged on Crowley's hand until he closed the short distance between the backs of the demon's fingers and his cheek. His head tilted fractionally into the movement, so Crowley became intimately familiar with the exact texture of angelic skin as it rubbed gently against his knuckles. It was the platonic definition of soft, it was. And if the absent nuzzling kept up, Crowley noted with detached fascination, the knuckle of his pinky finger was going to learn the texture of the corner of an angel's mouth very, very soon.</p><p>Someone made a punched-out sounding wheeze.</p><p>After a moment, Crowley realized it had been him.</p><p>That broke whatever spell they'd both been under. Aziraphale raised his head, which broke the contact between Crowley's fingers and his face.</p><p>"Oh, Crowley," he said, still sounding half in his book. "My apologies, that was one of my favorite parts. I'm afraid I got quite caught up."</p><p>Crowley didn't think he was capable of words, so he settled for an inquisitive noise, which came out far scratchier than intended.</p><p>Aziraphale looked down and took in a startled breath through his nose when he saw Crowley's fingers still held ever-so-gently in his own. He let go like he'd been bitten.</p><p>"Oh! Oh, my," he flustered. "Terribly sorry about that, old chap. I didn't mean to manhandle you." He chuckled like a dummy with a rubbish ventriloquist.</p><p>"No harm done," Crowley said faintly.</p><p>Aziraphale rose and practically lunged across the room to his desk to put the book away. Crowley felt the haste of the move did more to draw attention to how unnecessarily close they'd been up to that point than it did to downplay it. Since that closeness had been at least half his fault in the first place, however, he kept mum.</p><p>"Well, we should head out posthaste, shouldn't we?" Aziraphale said, still sounding too wooden for the cheerful face he was attempting to pull off.</p><p>"Yep," Crowley offered, feeling like his own walk was a bit more stumble than saunter as he headed toward the door.</p><p><br/>
</p>
<h4>Third Time</h4><p>
  <b>[London, 1974]</b>
</p><p>Crowley rolled up to the bookshop on a day and time he <em>thought</em> met the angel's strict criteria for opening. His grand plan was manifold: cause a little mayhem for potential customers by tempting the angel out for a nibble, play the dashing hero by giving Aziraphale the excuse he needed to close up early, and, possibly most critically, catch the infuriating principality when he didn't already have his head buried in a book.</p><p>The "closed" sign on the door when he got to the threshold had him preemptively groaning.</p><p>Luckily, locked doors were practically an invitation to a demon.</p><p>"Angel? You in?" he called when he stepped through. The door coolly closed and relocked behind him.</p><p>There was a vague hum off to the left where Aziraphale had lately moved his "office." When Crowley weaved his way around the cluttered standing tables, he found his worst fears confirmed. Aziraphale was sitting in his favorite low wingback and at least a quarter of the way through a novel. A head tilt confirmed it was L.M. Montgomery again. The angel was obsessed.</p><p>"Hello, Aziraphale. How are you? Business good? Dropped by to see if you wanted to step out for a bite to eat, catch up on work," Crowley said conversationally as he swayed closer, only stopping when their knees were practically touching.</p><p>Aziraphale made a perfectly ambiguous noise high in his nose but otherwise didn't look up from his book.</p><p>"Oh, me?" Crowley said in mock surprise. "I'm just <em>dandy</em>. Thank you <em>so</em> much for asking. New hair, new mustache, new signature project—you know how it is. And you will <em>not</em> like this one—the project, I mean, though come to think of it maybe not the hair or mustache either. Not that I expect you to twig to it anytime soon, since you still think horse-drawn carriages are unforgivably modern."</p><p>He paused to see if the monologue might spontaneously evolve into a dialogue.</p><p>Aziraphale turned a page.</p><p>"You know what? I'm not leaving," he said, like a punctuation to an argument. He even went so far as to cross his arms over his chest to model his pique. "Last four times I dropped by this month you've been hibernating in your books. Well, this time, I'll be here when you finally come up for air."</p><p>He considered for another moment, and his annoyance transmuted to mischief. A snap had a fat accordion folder, bursting at the seams, in his hand.</p><p>"In fact, I'm going to work on my project right here. I will be performing unthwarted wiles literally under your nose. How's that, hm, angel?"</p><p>He'd had a very (very) faint hope that talk of wiles and thwarting might goose Aziraphale back to consciousness—whether due to some built-in angelic response or as a conditioned response to Crowley's antics, he didn't really care (he did, quite a lot).</p><p>"You have brought this on yourself," he said on a sigh with a few disapproving tsks for emphasis. Then he plopped himself down right in front of the chair, spun around, and with a flick of his wrist spread all of his blueprints, printouts, and notes out in an arc before him.</p><p>He quickly got caught up in the work. London motorways and city council plans were dead boring, but he was determined to see this one through. It was too good to let go. Sure, it was shaping up to be a bit more upfront work than he'd originally intended, but the payoff was going to be spectacular, and undeniably visual. Here was a sophisticated, forward-thinking deed of the day (or of the calendar year, as it was shaping up) he might possibly get the grunts downstairs to understand, if only because it came with built-in iconography.</p><p>Crowley got so engrossed, in fact, that when his spine inevitably revolted against sitting upright, he almost leapt out of his corporation when he slumped back and encountered not a wall or a seat back but a warm pair of trouser-clad angel legs.</p><p>As a demon, he was officially a big fan of the fight or flight response—real agent of chaos there, since humans tended to be all over the map about it. As a Crowley, he had some complaints to file to the Corporation Department because he had a deeply embarrassing trend of freezing instead of fighting, or even fawning—he'd take fawning in a pinch. (He supposed freezing was a sight above fainting; at least he'd know what was coming.)</p><p>However, by the time he got over his freeze, he realized that even bodily throwing himself onto the angel hadn't been enough to roust Aziraphale from his book. What this said about the relative levels of trust between the two of them personally, respect Aziraphale had for him as a demonic threat, or where Crowley rated in importance against the adventures of a precocious Nova Scotian orphan, he absolutely did not want to delve into at the moment.</p><p>Instead, he channeled his inner cat and determinedly pretended the move was what he intended all along and that he was in no way bothered by the outcome.</p><p>He'd not quite gotten his eyes to focus back on the papers in front of him, however, when there was a gentle tug on a lock of his hair.</p><p>Gooseflesh rioted over his scalp and down over the rest of his sorely confused corporation. In the midst of his second freeze response in a matter of minutes, the touch repeated itself. This time, however, he recognized the source. It was a good thing, he realized wildly, that his vocal chords were currently as locked up as the rest of him; otherwise, he probably would have let out creation's most embarrassing, warbling moan.</p><p>Aziraphale was lightly, achingly softly running the fingertips of his left hand through the hair on the back of Crowley's head.</p><p>An angel of the lord was petting a demon's era-appropriate mullet.</p><p>And Crowley, someone help him, was thawing out so quickly he was in danger of completely melting into a useless puddle at the shivery, decadent sensation of it.</p><p>The angel's hand was attending to the hair just to the left of Crowley's crown. He was hooking generous locks through his fingers and dragging them slowly through. At even the slightest resistance, he paused to carefully work the snarls free before proceeding. Over and over, moving his hand slightly further down with every pass as he sought to smooth and soothe Crowley's hair until it poured through Aziraphale's fingers like silk.</p><p>Crowley spent a long time—probably too long—in a sensually stunned fugue state, incapable of doing anything more than living in each moment of delicious tension and release in his scalp and the sparks of lightning down his spine every time Aziraphale's manicured fingernails lightly brushed the back of his neck. He wasn't sure he'd ever felt so grounded in his corporation, so aware of time trickling by, as he did at this moment, which seemed to stretch infinitely like he was approaching the event horizon of a sensorial black hole.</p><p>Eventually, though, his ever-curious mind roused just enough to helpfully point out some curious correlations:</p><p>The past three times he'd had the opportunity to put himself in close physical proximity to the angel while he was thoroughly absorbed by a book, Aziraphale had displayed… affection.</p><p>The affection itself wasn't startling. Crowley worked in temptations for a living, after all, and he wasn't an idiot. There was only so many times a man-shaped being who displayed almost every emotion he felt on his face as he was feeling them could look at you with nearly literal heart eyes before it became impossible to write off the obvious.</p><p>However, what Aziraphale almost never, ever did was act on his affections. There was the odd endearment here and there, but he bandied those about with so many people that Crowley kept his expectations tempered. (He had a suspicion Aziraphale had adopted the affectations precisely so he could get away with calling Crowley "my dear boy" without it looking untoward.)</p><p>But Aziraphale didn't say "dear heart"; he said "fraternizing."</p><p>He didn't hold hands or stroke hair; he carefully handed over thermoses of holy water with half-formed promises in an impossible future.</p><p>Aziraphale played by a very particular set of rules.</p><p>And yet, improbably, it seemed like Crowley had found some sort of loophole. Put yourself close enough, hold still enough, and a distracted angel might just show a smidge more of his true feelings than normal…</p><p>Or, Crowley could be fooling himself and was merely enjoying the unlooked for benefits of being in proximity of an absent-minded hedonist who liked to touch soft things.</p><p>And, there it was. Now he'd ruined it for himself.</p><p>Suddenly the hair stroking felt like a condescending pat. Maybe the angel considered him a slightly feral pet whose wild fur wanted taming.</p><p>There was also the problem that there was no probable excuse for this, either. It wasn't a momentary slip, and it certainly wasn't wholly instigated by the angel. Crowley was the one who'd touched first, and while he wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there, it was in every measurable definition certainly Too Long.</p><p>So, with a twist to his mouth, he waited until the next time Aziraphale's fingers slipped free of his hair and then unobtrusively leaned forward, stretching to reach a far-hovering paper and then shifting forward so that when he sat back up there was a healthy distance between himself and the angel's legs. Room for Jesus and all that.</p><p>There was a barely audible hitch of breath behind him.</p><p>Every tiny, ridiculously extraneous hair on Crowley's corporation stood to attention as his senses focused with furious intensity on the ethereal being behind him.</p><p>A moment of perfect, unnatural stillness stretched taught.</p><p>The quiet scrape of a page being turned broke it.</p><p>Crowley kept his focus for a few minutes longer before he deliberately unkinked every last muscle in his spine and got back to the pretense of studying his paperwork.</p><p>Soon, he would give up the ghost, pack away his things, and make a big, noisy production of getting up and groaning for Aziraphale to put down the book already and have a bite to eat with him.</p><p>But not until enough time had passed for the blanket of plausible deniability to fall gently back over the quiet interlude that had just occurred between them.</p><p>Until then, he would jealously nurse the slim, scant evidence that maybe—this time, at least—Aziraphale hadn't been so distracted after all.</p><p>And, of course, try not to let that theoretical knowledge drive him absolutely round the bend.</p><p><br/>
</p>
<h4>Fourth Time</h4><p>
  <b>[London, 2008]</b>
</p><p>It didn't happen again for a long while—decades.</p><p>Crowley, when he thought he could get away with it, made a point to put himself in Aziraphale's sphere of influence when the angel was deeply distracted by a book. It didn't happen nearly as often as he'd like. In fact, he found the angel suddenly annoyingly present when he came round, and perfectly happy to set aside whatever he was reading to give Crowley his full and undivided attention. Crowley knew it was more than a little perverse of him to find it irritating, but, well…</p><p>On the few occasions he did happen upon an Aziraphale too caught up in a good novel or poetry collection or whatever to give him the time of day, he encountered an angel frustratingly intent on keeping his hands and embarrassing endearments to himself.</p><p>Still, Crowley was an optimist. Or maybe a masochist? In any event, he persisted, despite zero incitation.</p><p>He wasn't as keen about it these days, though. Time enough had passed without incident that he was becoming shockingly natural about the whole affair.</p><p>Today, they were in the bowels of some museum or archive or another—one of those places with a dead dull exterior that made them immune both to tourists and to Crowley's interest in the name. They'd met up for brunch and Aziraphale had mentioned this was his next stop. He had an appointment to look through a very old, very dry manuscript of some sort. With nothing better to do with his day, and seeing a ripe opportunity, Crowley had offered to tag along for the company and to poke him when it was time to leave for his manicure appointment in the late afternoon.</p><p>When Aziraphale had given him a suspicious look, he'd even managed to play it mostly casual when he shrugged and said, "Might want to get my nails done too, dunno. And all I've got on today is stirring up some web forums and trolling some Wikipedia articles. Can do that from my mobile, these days, clever humans." He'd waved the sleek new Blackberry he'd picked up with its clever little keyboard in evidence.</p><p>Aziraphale had clearly not known enough about what web forums and Wikipedia were to dispute him, so had cautiously welcomed him along.</p><p>Which was how Crowley found himself standing next to a heavy wooden chair that seemed calculated to bring any visitors' stay to a natural, perfunctory conclusion while Aziraphale read something unwieldy, illuminated, and near crumbling. The curator, who'd let them in and loitered about the basement room for a while, had finally given up on the chair doing its work and had trudged back upstairs. Once he'd gone, Crowley had let himself relax enough to slouch by the leg against the armrest of the chair.</p><p>He'd waited a moment to see if Aziraphale would react. But, when the angel had remained absorbed in the tome, Crowley had returned his attention to his mobile, thumbs flying over the keyboard with infernal glee.</p><p>He only noticed when something pressed softly against his hip because of the warmth that immediately started to seep through his painted-on jeans. Distracted as he was with his own work, it took a moment when he glanced down to register what he was seeing. Then, he did a literal double-take he would be vaguely embarrassed about later.</p><p>Aziraphale's cheek was resting ever-so-lightly against Crowley's right hip. He was so close that, after taking a belated full-body stock, Crowley realized he could feel the faint brush of angelic curls against his elbow through the fabric of his jacket.</p><p>Crowley blinked.</p><p>There the angel was still, leaned just a little awkwardly to settle the side of his face against Crowley's hip while he continued to read.</p><p>Crowley blinked again, just to be sure.</p><p>There was enough contact, in fact, that Crowley instantly felt when Aziraphale started to tense up. It made Crowley realize he'd completely stopped tapping at his mobile, too flabbergasted by what he was seeing and feeling. But now Aziraphale was shifting, ever so slightly, like he might pull away, and it hit Crowley somewhere secret and writhing that this… this was intentional. Aziraphale hadn't been so caught up that he'd absently leaned over. No, this time Crowley was the one who'd been hyper focused—to Aziraphale's perspective, at least—and the angel had done something incredibly stupid and brave.</p><p>Crowley almost fumbled the mobile straight to the floor in his haste to shoot his nearer hand out and hover it over Aziraphale's far shoulder. Not quite touching, but hopefully a clear entreaty for the angel not to pull away.</p><p>Aziraphale froze, and Crowley with him.</p><p>They remained, both in poses deeply unnatural and tense, for a fraught minute.</p><p>Finally, on a mostly silent, shaky breath, Crowley began typing one-handed on his mobile, keeping his eyes focused on the tiny screen.</p><p>He got through seven full lines of complete gibberish in an article about factors that determined an extraterrestrial object's qualifications as a planet (he was still bitter) before Aziraphale turned a page of the book.</p><p>Another two lines, and the angel cautiously relaxed back into Crowley's side.</p><p>Five more, and Crowley gently alighted his hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, thumb just brushing the back of his collar.</p><p>Crowley's heart didn't need to pound anymore than his breath needed to hitch, but his corporation did those things anyway as he stood with blind eyes fixed to his mobile while every molecule of his being was focused on the warm softness of the angel leaned against his hip and held under his palm.</p><p>They stayed like that for almost a full half hour before the clomping of footsteps overhead signaled the return of the curator. Crowley smoothly if reluctantly stepped away.</p><p>Neither of them spoke of it, either later that day or in the weeks following.</p><p>But Crowley thought, maybe, the next time he turned up and found Aziraphale lost in a book that he might pay a little extra attention. See if the angel's eyes were tracking the words faithfully, his hands turning the pages with steady cadence. If not, it could be an invitation, wordless and precious and oh-so toeing the line of plausible deniability that the angel could feel safe in extending it.</p><p>Crowley meant to take him up on it.</p><p>A month later, he was summoned to a cemetery for an important delivery.</p><p><br/>
</p>
<h4>Fifth Time</h4><p>
  <b>[London, 2017]</b>
</p><p>They were four years into what was the biggest, most dangerous gamble they'd ever made in their considerably long lives, without any indication of whether it was going right or wrong, and Crowley was <em>tired</em>.</p><p>The Dowlings had left for the states on holiday, which meant a rare break for both Francis and Nanny, and angel and demon had promptly decamped back to their respective domiciles, both griping loudly in the Bentley about how ready they were to relish in a few blessed moments alone and unobserved for once.</p><p>But Crowley had barely had time to give his plants a thorough and long overdue dressing down before he'd dropped the mister listlessly onto a table and hung his head in defeat.</p><p>Half an hour later fighting through London midday traffic found him walking quietly through the doors of the bookshop and looking round until he found Aziraphale sat at his rolltop desk, a book and cup of steaming something laid out before him.</p><p>"Crowley!" Aziraphale said, not unwelcoming but certainly surprised.</p><p>"Hey, angel," Crowley said quietly.</p><p>A little divot appeared between Aziraphale's eyebrows before he blinked rapidly and turned with overdone deliberation back to facing his book.</p><p>"I can't say I expected to see you, my dear boy, but you're welcome to stay. I'll just be… reading," he said with a furtive glance back over his shoulder. He squared his entire body toward the desk. "Please do, um, make yourself… make yourself at home," he said to the pages of his book, palms pressed flat to either side on the desk.</p><p>Crowley swayed in place and tipped his head up toward the oculus in brutally cut-off relief, blinking rapidly at the sharp sting of sunlight that gleamed through his sunglasses.</p><p>"Yeah," he agreed, voice husky, "don't let me interrupt."</p><p>It took him several minutes to carefully fold down a few huge things expanding in his chest into a more manageable size, one that he thought he might be able to keep hold of. Then, he swayed close, closer, until his hip bones bumped into the back of Aziraphale's chair. With a deep breath, he braced his hands on either end of the backrest and then curled himself over the back of the chair.</p><p>When his head was hanging down fully beneath the sharp jut of his shoulders, his cheek lined up neatly next to Aziraphale's temple. He hovered, like a stylish gargoyle or an affection-pilfering vulture, and waited to see what Aziraphale might feel able to give.</p><p>It didn't take nearly as long as Crowley expected before Aziraphale's left hand reached up, slightly trembling, and brushed tentative fingers over the far side of Crowley's jaw. His gaze remained fixed on the book, and his right hand even turned a page. Meanwhile, his left hand made soft, inexorable progress up the side of Crowley's face until it was gently cupping his cheek and jaw. The pointer finger, more daring than the rest, nestled into the fragile divot under Crowley's ear where his jaw hinged and pressed with terrible delicacy.</p><p>Crowley took in a harsh breath through his nose and squeezed his eyes tight as he fought to keep perfectly still, to not fall completely apart and finish the slow collapse he'd started until his face was pressed into Aziraphale's neck.</p><p>Because he knew, he <em>knew</em>, why they went through this elaborate pantomime. Why every moment of tenderness was couched and masked. There were roles they had to embody, every day, lest the glowing eyes of Heaven and Hell catch them out.</p><p>There was also Crowley's own skittishness toward the tenderer emotions to consider. He thought he could accept it outright, bold and without pretense, if it were ever offered, but he wasn't sure, especially when even this much was enough to wreck him. And he could only barely imagine what it was like for Aziraphale, who lived most of his life in careful layers of self-obfuscation so he could to toe the Heavenly line without going absolutely batshit with the fear that a rejection of Heaven would be a rejection of Her.</p><p>So, he understood why they were here, now, doing this objectively ridiculous thing where they pretended Crowley wasn't asking and Aziraphale wasn't answering. It was because it was something both of them needed, and also the only thing either of them could safely accept under all of the many awful circumstances.</p><p>In the end, Crowley thought, dazed and half to tears from a warm hand softly touching his face, wasn't this compromise they'd found and allowed for each other just a little bit lovely?</p><p>Eventually, when he thought he wouldn't be able to stand it a moment longer, Crowley turned and pressed his face into Aziraphale's palm. It couldn't be called a kiss by even the most generous of definitions. But it was his lips against his angel's flesh for a suspended moment.</p><p>Then, he pulled away, feeling Aziraphale's fingers drag with the barest pressure against his skin.</p><p>"Tempt you to dinner?" he croaked.</p><p>Aziraphale's voice was just the tiniest bit shattered when he agreed.</p><p><br/>
</p>
<h4>And all the times after...</h4><p>
  <b>[South Downs, 2023]</b>
</p><p>Crowley mooched onto the front porch of the cottage and discovered his angel reading on the hideous outdoor lounge that had come with the property, nose practically buried in a book. Something pulpy and romantic from the look of the cover.</p><p>Well, that was all right, he decided.</p><p>He plonked himself down right in Aziraphale's space, threw his legs over his lap, and tucked in close. One arm he snaked through the angel's, which inspired a faintly annoyed grunt from the man-shaped being in question as he shifted to accommodate. The other Crowley left in his lap so he could dick around on his mobile, temple propped at an appropriate reading angle on the ball of Aziraphale's shoulder.</p><p>Crowley was just finishing wriggling in good and snug when Aziraphale closed his book over his finger and leaned his cheek against Crowley's head.</p><p>"All right?" Crowley mumbled, cycling through his current games to find something appropriately mindless.</p><p>Aziraphale hummed an affirmative and then rubbed his cheek over Crowley's hair until his face was tilted enough that he could press his lips in a sustained nuzzle to Crowley's brow, right at the sensitive hairline.</p><p>Crowley shivered slightly at the sensation and dropped his mobile into his lap. Wordlessly, he tipped his head back a little so Aziraphale's lips were pressed to the center of his forehead.</p><p>Aziraphale, obligingly, gave a gentle kiss to the spot.</p><p>Then, another to the fragile dip just between Crowley's eyes.</p><p>Finally, he came to a tender landing against Crowley's own lips, which clung soft but insistent.</p><p>"Perfectly all right, darling," Aziraphale murmured against his mouth.</p><p>Belatedly, Crowley realized the picture they made, tooth-rottingly sweet and adoring on the very public expanse of their front porch in the incredibly nosey village they'd settled in.</p><p>Right there in front of God and everyone.</p><p>He blushed to bursting, but he didn't pull away.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><ul>
<li>Faye, sorry it took me over 5k words to get to your request for "forehead kisses"</li>
<li>Yes, that is absolutely a Mumford &amp; Sons lyrics reference in the title. <strike>I needed a song that could match the over-the-top soft angst to soft fluff vibes of this fic.</strike>
</li>
<li>Also, a little Tony shoutout for the tail end of the Stayin' Julive event, as a treat</li>
</ul></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>